Our Echoes Roll from Soul to Soul
by frozen-delight
Summary: Thirty-five years and there's never been any indication of - this. (Please mind the warnings inside the story.)


**Title:** Our Echoes Roll from Soul to Soul  
**Rating:** Teen and Upper Audiences  
**Fandom:** Sherlock (BBC)  
**Pairing:** Sherlock/Mycroft  
**Warnings:** Non-graphic incest  
**Word count:** ~2800  
**Status:** Complete  
**Beta:** Many, many thanks to the lovely **canonisrelative** for all her patience, help and encouragement. All remaining mistakes are mine, of course.  
**Disclaimer:** Sherlock is the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:**Thirty-five years and there's never been any indication of - _this._

**A/N:** An homage to Britten's Serenade for Tenor, Horn and Strings, because it's the centenary of his birth and because in another life, I'd like to be Sarah Willis. :) Neither Britten nor the most beautiful of instruments are responsible for my first, if weird foray into slash.

To the readers of the "Reigate Rituals": I'm sorry, I needed a little break, but I'm trying to get back to chapter 5 as soon as possible.

As always - thank you for reading! Please enjoy! And all reactions are warmly appreciated, of course.

* * *

**Our echoes roll from soul to soul**

It's a noise that wakes him. Not the shrill, familiar ring of his alarm, but a similarly jarring sound, the horn of a passing car outside.

When he opens his eyes, it's still night and silence envelops the room once more, although there's a lighter tinge to the darkness than there was when he shut them. It must be sometime between three and half past three, then. His alarm clock is set at half past four, but it isn't unusual for him to get up before it rings. Sometimes he doesn't even go to sleep in the first place.

When he's feeling particularly exhausted and petty, the pettiness an inevitable side effect to his exhaustion, Mycroft thinks that not even the Queen loses as much sleep over the welfare of the Commonwealth as he does. Like the king in a classic drama who lies awake, worrying about his state while his subjects enjoy the peaceful, undisturbed sleep of the just, Mycroft rarely finds rest. In the velvety darkness of his bedroom his mind ponders on the events of the day that was and on affairs yet to come, never shutting down for more than four hours. Tonight, he's slept no more than two.

As gratifying as it would be to have the driver of that passing car arrested and deported to Siberia, where he would awaken no one with his ill-timed horn-blowing, Mycroft can't help but realise that it wouldn't be entirely righteous. His lodgings generally provide excellent noise insulation, except when the damn window across the room is left wide open. Unlike his little brother, who always lacked a whit in refinement, Mycroft never sleeps with his window open, not even in summer. Like any civilised man of the 21st century, be he in possession of a country manor or not, he prefers to reside in slightly stuffy, air-conditioned rooms. That he spent the night in such thoroughly barbarian conditions and can't bring himself to remember why is in itself an eloquent comment on the current situation of the state.

Yesterday, an old steel bridge in Yorkshire collapsed as a train crossed over it, resulting in the tragic death of 136 British citizens, amongst them a group of fifth-formers going on a school excursion. The prime minister made a big fuss about it, bewailing the victims and promising a new law on construction and God knows what else had entered his grief-struck, hyperactive mind. Mycroft will have to spend most of this day picking up the pieces. As though he didn't have enough on his plate already.

The need to bring about an international compromise in the Syria crisis as quickly as possible has considerably diminished his tolerance of the prime minister's childish antics. Yesterday, when the expert charged with determining the cause of the accident reported back that it was the result of creeping, perfectly natural in a thirty-five year old structural steel construction, the prime minister had stared at him with obstinate incomprehension, refusing to accept any fact politically hard to sell. Mycroft had felt inclined to point out that his brother had already been aware of the ageing mechanisms of metals at the tender age of seven, but he'd kept his tongue in check.

To be fair, Sherlock's early fascination with chemistry had been extraordinary. Not that anything about Sherlock had ever not been extraordinary. Mycroft devoted many hours to passing on to his eager little brother all that he knew of the various heat treatments of steel. Involuntarily, his wrist twinges as though in sympathy to his memory of how it had hurt after drawing countless diagrams to illustrate how austenite transformed into ferrite, perlite, bainite, martensite. It's a pain of the kind he gladly recalls, maybe comparable to what a mother feels when she sees her infant frolic around, all woes of childbirth vindicated in retrospect. The gleaming eyes beneath the unruly black curls had been enough of an incentive to keep Mycroft prattling on about the advantages and disadvantages each microstructure offered and how the transition from one to the next could be manipulated by all kinds of external factors such as temperature, time and alloying elements, until he was all but blue in the face.

He hadn't really minded the talking. He'd always liked to hear himself talk and at that time so had Sherlock. Wherever Mycroft's fancy led him, Sherlock followed, trudging after his elder sibling with big, trusting eyes and the perky expectation that everything should be explained to him – at once! In those days chemistry had been one of Mycroft's passions, so it became little Sherlock's prime occupation, too.

Whereas Mycroft's mind delighted most in those deft little ways of manipulating what was into something else, what appealed most to his little brother were the more flamboyantly obvious things, bless him, namely that special trick which made the heating curve of iron contract at 911 °C and suddenly expand again at 1392 °C. Mycroft hoped that one day, thanks to his careful tutoring, Sherlock would come to appreciate subtlety, too. In the meantime he allowed himself to feel like a magician as he explained the shift in crystal structures behind this phenomenon to his stunned little brother.

Once he'd digested all the information, Sherlock wanted to examine this for himself, but Mycroft told him that this kind of experiment could only be conducted in a smelting furnace. Needless to say, Sherlock wanted a smelting furnace for Christmas that year. Unfortunately, Mummy and Daddy neither would nor could grant their youngest son his dearest wish, and Mycroft couldn't, either. A couple of years later, he actually had at his disposal all the power and resources necessary to build a private smelting furnace for his brother, but by that time Sherlock had lost all interest in that particular experiment. Mycroft can't be sure, but he suspects that there is a part in him which regrets that. And he doesn't think that this regret springs from his highly-developed power complex.

He ignores the nagging sensation at the back of his mind that these fond old memories haven't resurfaced without cause and attributes the curious turn his thoughts have taken to the lack of rest the night provided. A bridge collapsed, a window was left open inadvertently and now he's having trouble leaving bed, losing himself in sentimental reminiscences of a past long gone. How trite. High time that he prepared himself a cup of coffee, ignored his weariness and got on with the day.

Really, if a mindless steel bridge can do its job for thirty-five years, then surely, so can he, what with his pronounced sense of duty? His body may no longer be able to take all the exertions in stride like it used to, but it doesn't matter. The job needs to be done and no one can fill the position like he does.

As he raises himself a little sluggishly and pushes down the covers, his thoughts already on the coffee that he's going to drink in a minute, he suddenly realises that _he's not alone._

It's inexcusable that he notices it only now. He's getting slow.

Next to him there is another body, emitting warmth and gentle, little breaths.

Faint memories of what passed before he went to sleep come back to him. Or at least of what he thought had passed. After all, it seems rather – _farfetched_.

He quickly glances to his side to make sure that he isn't dreaming.

He isn't.

However farfetched, his memories appear to be perfectly accurate.

This would explain why he slept so badly. Not even to mention the open window.

It would also explain all those ridiculous subterfuges of his mind since first opening his eyes – clearly he was willing to contemplate everything rather than what was right in front of, or rather _next_ to him.

He slumps back on his pillow, the worries that kept him from finding any relief in his sleep now clawing at his conscious mind with the mighty vengeance of the Furies that guard the entrance to lower parts of Hell. He almost wishes for an imminent nuclear war to demand his attention. Anything to distract him from this, whatever it is.

_Whatever it is._ He's never been so imprecise. And yet – he finds he truly doesn't know how to specify it. He doesn't know. It's shocking.

He always knows everything. He can read any person and any situation in the blink of an eye. For goodness sake, he can even read his unfathomable younger brother – though to be fair that is more the result of experience than of skill. No, he amends, he _thought_ he could read him. It's obvious that he can't. How else could he have missed this? How else could he have been so clueless?

Thirty-five years and there's never been any indication of – _this._

It's laughable, really. To think of all the times it could have happened – and with much greater justification, too. Why now?

Why not during one of the hot summers of their youth, vibrant, exuberant with curiosity and promise of things to come? Why not when Sherlock, eyes murky with the howling storm of wild need, had scratched at Mycroft's arms until they were bloody, begging for just one more shot to ease his pain? When he'd clung on to him for dear life as though Mycroft were the only solid thing left in the world while his mind palace crumpled, withered? Why not when they'd said goodbye a year ago, not knowing if they'd ever see each other again? Why not when Sherlock had come back, two months previously, crushed, depressed, exhausted, fearing that there was no longer a place for him in London? Why not when Sherlock had been seriously injured during one of his cases? Or at least after they'd shared a couple of drinks on the rare occasion that Mycroft kidnapped him for a brotherly get-together?

Any other situation would have made sense. This – _none_. He has his life back, his work back, his friends back, has defeated the most serious opponent of his career. For maybe the first time in his life, Sherlock doesn't need him. And yet, last night of all times, his feet somehow ended up in Mycroft's lap, white, soft, inviting.

Mycroft finds he has no answer to the question and defers it for the more pressing issue of: What now?

Is this the end? Or only the beginning? Or neither?

Ten, fifteen years back it might have been easier to answer. Now they both have their lives, independent of each other, infinitely separate. A part of him feels that there's no room in their lives for any continuation of… well, anything. It's almost a relief. But there's also another part, hoping, praying, despite all his attempts to shush it, that now that they've found themselves and their place in life, they might also find each other.

He tries to determine if this is something he always wanted. Tries to come up with evidence that this didn't merely start a couple of hours ago, that this dark secret love has always been there and he's just locked it all away in the hushed casket of his soul like a lily-livered Victorian gentlewoman. It's both there and not.

He thinks of a steel bridge that may stand for thirty-five years, no outward sign of decay, until it suddenly collapses into shatters. He's reasonably certain that analogously, where he and Sherlock are concerned, there was no tottering on the Bridge of Dread, no burning in Purgatory, just a plunge straight into the darkest, deepest circles of Hell, skipping all the teetering in-between, an impetuous, frantic tumble and sempiternal rue.

Thirty-five years and nothing happened. And then the feet in his lap.

At the same time he's forced to admit: A crystal shining quiver of Sherlock's light eyes – and everything in Mycroft trembles in answer. It's always been like that. Obviously, he refuses to believe that he's mere wax in his little brother's hands. That would be all too humiliating. His ex-fiancée, Jane, once called him a homicidal steel bar and by that she hadn't been referring to his muscular torso. Mycroft considers it a feat that he managed to tickle this insult out of the highly reserved, career-obsessed lawyer. Probably it's just as well that they were never married. However, her comparison was more apt than she could possibly have realised. For Mycroft prides himself in being some kind of impervious super steel, the kind that materials engineers still dream about, both hard and ductile. And yet when it comes to Sherlock the comparison loses all its glorious associations and it suddenly seems as though he were nothing more than a common, mindless steel bar to be forged by his little brother into one shape and then another, purely on a whim. Not that Mycroft ever mentioned to Sherlock that his eyes are more powerful than a forge – the boy has always been vain enough as it is.

Should he chide Sherlock for vanity, though? Isn't the constant _attention_, for lack of a better word, that he's devoted to Sherlock all his life nothing but the deluded vanity that attracted Pygmalion to his Galatea? This fascination with someone who at heart is nothing more than an echo of Mycroft himself, from the bespoke clothing and the refined fragrance of Christian Clive 1872 that he bought him to the mannerisms that he taught him to the furniture in his brother's mind palace that he arranged and furbished to his own taste and fancy? Where Sherlock deleted most of what his teachers at school tried to give him an understanding of, he's never deleted a single thing that Mycroft taught him, his mind an eternal reservoir of all that ever concerned the man behind the British Government.

What if Mycroft's newly discovered interest is nothing more than the fondness for photo albums from their youth which people past their prime display? A midlife crisis on his part certainly seems a much more likely explanation than anything else for the hazy memories of the night that resurface in his mind.

The same plush mouth that asked for an explanation of ebb and flow and mercilessly teased Mycroft about his diet is pressed into his shoulder, slack and warm, panting an irregular tune that makes the particles of Mycroft's soul tingle and dance. And then that very same mouth suddenly turns slightly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, tender, sweet, of artless simplicity, and what still remains of Mycroft dissolves in a hot, passionate fanfare of blow, bugle, blow.

God, he feels his attempts at rationalising away what happened wane. Inexcusably so. He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it from all those silly, futile wanderings and turns to face the other half of the bed in order to contemplate the proceedings from a fresh perspective. There is even less grace in his movements than in his thoughts. His body hurts all over, as though Sherlock had really rearranged the grain boundaries of every cell and atom, shaking them to form a new and foreign shape like the stones in a kaleidoscope. Sherlock would appreciate the metaphor.

But God, what if that's all he will ever appreciate? What if he was only bored and looking for a novel way to pass the evening?

There's this unquenchable need inside him now, and the thought that this was it, that the echoes of their serenade of lust have faded away into the night, threatens to choke Mycroft.

He closes his eyes, opens them again. Takes a deep breath. No use crying over spilled milk. Isn't that what he always tells the prime minister, too? After all, he's a political realist through and through. What's done can't be undone. Time to move on, then. The shadows of the night may make a mole hill seem a mountain and nothing – _something_. But the night's slowly crawling towards its end and it will no longer do to fool himself.

Calmly, he surveys the traces of last night's ill-advised undertaking. It's grown a little lighter in the room since the moment when he first opened his eyes. He can now make out the bluish-white outline of a delicate foot protruding from beneath the burgundy blanket. Despite himself he inches closer, holding his breath, and presses his leg softly against a smooth, warm calf. It's soothing, relaxing even, in a way that sleep or coffee can never be. Slowly, his toes caress the dainty ankle. It feels nice. Better than nice.

Something in Mycroft unclenches and all his valid objections in their mutual insuperability, a construction of fine, little matches arranged on top of each other with great care and skill, are ruthlessly swept away by a surge of happiness and hope, and collapse onto the sheets surrounding him. Before he has any chance to reassemble them, his alarm rings and the body besides his suddenly stirs.


End file.
